The next morning, Rina stared at herself in the mirror a little too long. Her eyes looked unfamiliar—like they were borrowed. Her uniform felt tighter around her throat, as if it didn't belong to her. Maybe it was the bad sleep. Maybe it was the crying she pretended she didn't hear.
In class, things got weirder. Her seat had been moved. When she asked the teacher why, he frowned like he didn't understand the question. "You've always sat near the front," he said. But she hadn't. She remembered the window.
During lunch, she returned to her old seat—just to feel grounded. That's when she noticed something strange: the floor beneath her desk creaked differently. Hollow. When no one was looking, she pressed her nails into the wood and pried it open.
Inside was a hidden compartment—and inside that, a notebook. Its pages were yellowed and fragile. The cover was scratched up, but a name was barely visible: Mika.
She flipped through. The entries were unhinged, the writing frantic.
> "They're replacing me. Every smile feels like a goodbye."
"I woke up in a different room. My parents called me someone else."
"I'm slipping. If you find this, you might already be me."
Rina's hands trembled. Her throat went dry.
That night, she sat with the notebook on her lap, the only light in her room a flickering desk lamp. She heard it again—the crying. But this time it was clearer. Closer. She pressed her ear to the wall.
"Mika?" she whispered.
The crying stopped. Then came the whisper:
> "You remember me... that's dangerous."
A crack began to form on the wall—thin and jagged, like a smile carved by a shaking hand.
From deep inside the crack, something whispered again:
> "If they hear us, they'll come. Don't let them know you're still real."